What to do when the indispensable trowel gets lost together with the hand-held shears. One has lost one’s hands, fingers. One is doomed to not garden that day.
And why has this happened when the trowel and the secateurs are indeed one’s hands, the wrists inutile without them? God help one’s psyche. What ruin and havoc will be next?
I hear the even, sweet, exasperating perseverance of Mother’s voice: “Where were you when you last had them?” Oh gaaaah! When last I had them fountains tossed in the sun, bright angels flew and landed in rose petals, and the air was laden with light and eddying perfume. Baskets of rare and perfect fruit were everywhere. Piles of gold.
Both tools have bright red handles. Red and green is why butchers put parsley on steaks and hamburger meat. Meat then is redder. So that if my two tools are astray in the grass their handles ought to be shouting.